


hawaii five-o

by feltstrips



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Bottoming from the Top, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pseudo-Incest, Set in Mid-Season 1, pw/p
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 03:43:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18044801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feltstrips/pseuds/feltstrips
Summary: Each vertebra is a speed bump, dragging him down. He gets his hands pressing into the steep curve between Five's hip and ribcage.





	hawaii five-o

**Author's Note:**

> five deserves to get fucked. i guess its my job to provide
> 
> edit: changed the POV and created a million typos in the process. please hold

He puts himself in Klaus’s doorway all at once, that inborn way of his; the suck of air, the man-made vacuum opening up for him and letting him fall into place, an end the movement started out of sight. He’s there and wasn’t. Same as he’s always been.

“Come here,” says Five, and turns out of his doorway and into the uncertain waters brimming at the hallway. It’s a summons in a biting, literal feel. Klaus's lip curls, who-does-he-think-he-is, but he's is drawn after his retreating shadow and so he hits the coast just like that, on his bare feet, following in his footsteps. The whispers of Five's cotton socks and linen shirt float and fill the silence. He's is too quiet. This all is too quiet. The dead perched on Klaus' shoulders are louder than this.

“Got something up your sleeve?” He asks, needlessly simple, expecting high hell, floodwater. Five glances back just enough say he won’t wait for him. His eye looks disdainful.

“Ben?” He says, the slowest code. Klaus laughs, a fibrous sound in the quiet, the still, and mouths “no”. Ben hightailed it out of his head on the wake of double-dosed Adderall.

“Delores?” He asks, a rebound shot. Something in Five's frame, the cast of his shoulders twitches, then lies flat. He doesn’t respond.

So they have privacy, then, except for the mundane; if Klaus tilts his head, he can almost hear his siblings’ breathing thread from the walls, catch around his neck, his nose, break into cobwebs. This is the lower labyrinth, where the others sleep. Where he sleeps, sometimes.

Five takes a left. Klaus sees spikes of rune-written algebra 'round the corner, peeking past the hinges, scrawled on the door.

He says “Mom would have a fit,” trails his fingers over a nothing jumble of numbers. He grunts.

“She didn’t have fits.”

He grins, tucks his chin down and fits a fist into the shrunken space between his jaw and throat. “Nah, not serious, but- real brief ‘n spirited ones,” he says, “Matronly clap of lighting.”

“Must have been a you thing,” Five says. He faces Klaus standing, hands in his pockets, breaking the clean lines of his uniform shorts.

“So?” Klaus says.

Five reaches up and flicks open the top button of his shirt.

“Ah,” he says, “right,” and take a step back. A reflex.

“Come here,” Five says again, and steps towards him. The padded sound of his foot on the floor, the drifting clicks of his fingernails on the buttons, then buttons hitting the hardwood. Plasticky, small cracks. He’s bared from the waist up, now.

“Gosh, Five,” Klaus says, the words clammy on his tongue, “Whole burlesque show just for me,” and Five screws up his lips, does away with the one-step forward one-step back and pop-s himself closer to him, takes that space away with a shudder of light. Breathing distance.

“Stop talking.” His blue eye are pinheads in his face, standing out of the gloom. Klaus swallows and that’s clammy, too.

“What's the magic word?”

“I said stop,” Five says, spitting it, and grabs the lapels of his bathrobe, wrenches it off his shoulders. He stumbles away just a bit, a laugh burbling in his chest. Five wraps his skinny fingers over Klaus' shoulder, takes him along for the ride when he jumps himself onto the bed. It’s like a ten-story fall, dizzying.

Klaus pushes his hands against his sheets, skittering, backs himself into the wall. Five throws his leg over him like he's mounting a horse, kneels in his lap.

“A 'please’ would do you some good.”

“Just shut up,” he says. Too close to his face for comfort, heartbeat-quick. He unzips his schoolboy shorts and Klaus’s stomach lurches.

“Jesus,” he says, manic, “Jesus. This is gonna land me in jail,” like his mind has been made up for him. Five rolls his eyes, a flash of white.

“What goddamn part of ‘shut up’ do you not understand?”

“Most of it,” He says, and can’t get the rest out because Five gets a hold of his jaw and kisses him. All teeth, all tongue down his throat, all slick static noise.

Klaus makes a fist and pushes it into Five's chest, knuckles digging through that thin skin. Not hitting; forcing him away. His heart is beating rabbitlike. Five nips on the way, hard. 

“How mean,” he says once he has space to think, licking over his twinging lower lip. Not split, lucky day. Five stays back. His collarbone stands out as he mutters under his breath, a relief carving outlining with the rhythm of whatever he's saying. The circles under his eyes catch in the low light.

"That really was just so mean."

“Good sleuthing, sport,” Five says, clicking his front teeth together on the “t”, “I sure am mean.”

“Would hate to muddle your intentions, grandpa,” he says, and the click doesn’t come through well on the “pa”. Five pushes Klaus's fist off his chest and goes back to working his clothes off.

“If you're done,” he says, shoving his shorts down his hips, “Let's get on with it.”

“Without further ado, ladies and gents,” he says, distracted by the little 13-year-old prick tenting Five's briefs. It looks ridiculous enough to make him laugh, or make him sick. Very dramatic, all that this is.

The underwear comes off and vanishes into the room's hungry dark. Five pulls Klaus’s dick out of his jeans, not minding the zipper or his wince at all, holding it as easily as a pen. Two spit-slick pumps from his bony kid hand and Klaus is fully hard, fully embarrassed at needing it.

Klaus feels down his back. Five breathes into his ear, hot and steady as he shuffles closer in, little movements, crooked over him like a harp, or a cupid's bow. Each vertebra is a speed bump, dragging him down until he gets his hands pressing into the steep curve between his hip and his ribcage, almost in awe. Five makes a small sound of annoyance.

“Hold your horses, cowboy,” he says and rests his mouth on Five's hovering shoulder, slides a finger from the tip of his prick to his hole. It pops right in, too easy. He snorts and sticks his pointer up to the knuckle like nothing. Two fingers, three, Five's hole fluttering around them.

“Someone's thinking like a boy scout,” Klaus says, laughingly, “you dirty little thing, you.” A bead of warmed-over lube oozes down his palm. Five reaches up, smacks the side of his head right where he was expecting it.

“I'm not going to ask again,” he says, with the slightest strain. His hips twitch just once. Time to get going. Pulling his fingers out, Klaus wipes the lube into Five's pinstripe sheets, something to get a kick out of in the morning.

When he lines up and sinks into him, easy as pie, Five moans once from the top of his mouth and then presses his lips together. Caging in the display. He looks angrier than anything. Fitting.

He goes to move, to fuck him proper but Five stops him, holds onto his wrist. Keeps his hand from touching his waist. Deep breath, he does it himself; lifting up, pulling off. The straight lines of his thighs start shaking.

“Fuck,” Five says to himself, head falling back, showing off his throat. A liar’s invitation. His Adam's apple is little more than a bump, the first sign of the knots unraveling.

“Yeah,” Klaus says, “yeah, c'mon,” more air than words. It feels good, to understate things. It feels like a fucken' angel's choir headed by the silvering buzz crowded in the back of his skull.

Five drops back down into his lap with force, like he’s trying to make it catch, like he’s trying to make it hurt. Up again, down. Painfully slow, as always. Little puffing breaths sneaking past his clamped teeth.

He says “Are we ever going to get beyond your 'Sex Toy Klaus’ phase?” And Five gives him the snottiest hint of glare, starts rutting his hips forward, back, little short drags. Klaus's eyelids flutter shut and he groans, drops his head onto the dull angle of his chest.

“You’ll live,” says Five.

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title; five was wearing nothing but kneesocks the whole time


End file.
